Lioness

by Nell Brien

  The Piper Cub touched down and rolled to a stop. Cat turned and walked to Thomas’s tent without waiting to see Campbell climb out. He knew the country, guessed which way they would go. Or he’d followed their tire tracks. What didn’t he know? Certainly, enough never to stray across a border without knowing about it.

  “You’re on your way, Thomas.” His forehead was still hot, but he was conscious. “Superman just dropped in.”

  She fiddled with the blanket, tucking it more securely around him, and Thomas smiled his thanks. A shadow fell across them, the sunlight cut off by a figure in the doorway.

  “Cat,” Campbell said.

  “Hi.” She stood. “Good trip?”

  “Not bad.” Campbell entered, sat on his heels beside Thomas, spoke to him in Swahili. Thomas answered and Campbell laughed and patted his shoulder. “We’ll have you in Nairobi in a couple of hours,” he said in English.

  Cat moved toward the doorway. “I’ll get my bag.”

  Campbell followed her. “Can I come in?” He stood in the doorway of the tent. “We have a few minutes to talk. The men are unloading supplies.”

  “Yes. Come in.” She swung the bag off the bed, dropped it to the floor. “We’ve got time, I’m sure, for you to tell me why you lied to me.”

  “What are you talking about? How have I lied to you?” He gave her no time to answer. “If it comes to that, why don’t you tell me why you insisted on leaving Maasai Springs against my instructions—”

  She cut him off. “My brother died in Tanzania. And you lied about it. That’s all I’m interested in.”

  “I see.” He picked up a jar of moisturizer from the camp table and held it to his nose. Cat noticed his hands. The skin on the knuckles was broken and bloody.

  “There’s no mystery.” He replaced the jar on the table. “We’d strayed across the border, that’s all. It’s easy to do. We brought your brother back and didn’t mention it. If we had, the whole thing could have been blown out of proportion. With the drought and the refugees pouring into the country from all directions, there’s a lot of political unrest. The region’s a tinderbox.”

  “Don’t talk to me about politics.” He was so glib, Cat thought. Made it sound so plausible. “You don’t stray across borders, Campbell. You know every stream, every village, every inch of this country. You could have told me—” She stopped before she mentioned the night they’d spent, the opportunities he’d had to tell her. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to leave this country, get back to her work. That was all she had ever cared about. Joel and work and Rosie. And Paul Neville, she reminded herself. She cared about Paul Neville. “Who was to know? You think I was going to run to the police and tell them?”

  “Dan!” Tom’s voice came from outside. He banged on the canvas wall. “We’re ready to leave.”

  “Be right there,” Campbell said.

  Cat grabbed her bag, started across the tent.

  “There is no room for you this trip,” Campbell said. “Tom can take only two.”

  “What do you mean, Tom?”

  “Tom’s flying. The plane takes two passengers. Thomas and Olentwalla must go.”

  She turned away without answering, threw her bag on the camp bed.

  “Listen, Cat. This will give us some time to talk—”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Cat pushed past him. She drummed her fingers on the men’s tent before she ducked inside.

  “Hey, I hear you two will be resting between clean sheets tonight.”

  Moses and Sambeke carried Thomas between them to the plane, Olentwalla walked behind, insisting that he was well enough, that he should wait until tomorrow. Cat looked at his face and knew each breath he took was agony—he had to get to a hospital. The two Maasai maneuvered the injured men into the small plane, and Cat looked around to say goodbye to Tom, found that he and Campbell were deep in conversation a few yards away. Then Tom nodded, and walked to the plane.

  “Tom,” Cat started. He looked at her, and a lump rose in her throat. How could he have been involved in Joel’s death? She said, “Thanks, Tom. Take care.”

  “Memsahib,” he said. But he smiled and put up a hand in salute before swinging aboard. The little plane turned, headed toward Nairobi.

  For the rest of the afternoon, she kept close to her tent, concentrated on some sketches she had started in the first days of the safari. A smiling Thomas holding a teapot. The three Maasai wrapped in their traditional red cloaks, their AKs held at port arms, a herd of elephant in the background. At five, Sambeke brought her a can of hot water. She had a sponge bath and changed into wrinkled clothes that had been dried in the sun but still smelled of river water. The evening yawned in front of her like a chasm to be crossed. What was the point of questions when she knew she would get no answers? She’d get back to Nairobi, talk to people there.

  “Cat.” Campbell was a dark shadow against the canvas wall of her tent. “Dinner.”

  “I’ll eat here, thanks.”

  “Don’t make me come in there after you.”

  She thought of the scene that would make and unzipped her door. A deep golden light hung over the grassland, trees outlined in black against the huge red disk of the sun. A few zebra had come to drink at the edge of the now-quiet stream. Long mournful cries of birds echoed from tree to tree. The evening was hushed and waiting.

  Campbell handed her a drink. “Thank God for good whiskey,” he said pleasantly.

  “Thanks.” She matched his tone. “Where is everybody?”

  Campbell had brought another Maasai with him, introduced him briefly. Cat didn’t quite get his name, and she didn’t insist on knowing. The camp was quiet, Moses and Sambeke and the new man nowhere to be seen.

  “They’re around. Dinner’s going to be sketchy without Thomas, I’m afraid.” Campbell went back to his own chair.

  So the patrols were out as usual. “A sandwich will do.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Did you get my message?”

  “Yes. Thomas gave it to me. Thank you. Campbell, if a long discussion is on your mind, forget it. I don’t want to go into it. I know you are going to continue to lie to me about my brother and, really, that’s all I care about. For the rest, well, we had a couple of nights together. They don’t mean anything. Not to me.”

  He looked at her in silence, then said, “Christ! What sort of attitude is that?”

  “My attitude,” she said sharply. “I’m not interested in explanations—”

  “Well, I am. Why did you insist on leaving Maasai Springs before I got back?”

  “As you said from the beginning, Maasai Springs is perfect for my purpose. So now I have to get back home.” She put her glass down on the table and got to her feet. “I’m not very hungry. I think I’ll turn in.”

  “No. Not before we talk this out—”

  “Listen, you don’t seem to get it. I don’t want to talk. I’m tired. Good night.”

  She turned to walk to her tent, a few yards. Far away she heard the laughing cry of a hyena and shivered. A strange sound. Campbell grabbed her arm, spun her around to face him.

  She tried to wrench free. “What the hell are you doing? Take your hands off me.”

  He pulled her toward him. Cat struck at his face, then jammed a shoulder into his chest, twisting her head away from him. He searched for her mouth, ignoring the blows on his shoulders. Cat brought up a knee, trying to slam it into his groin—not sure who she was fighting, herself or him. Campbell bore her backward, toward the tent. She wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him, mouthing the skin on his neck, using her teeth. Her body was on fire. Wanting him. Hating him because she did.

  The canvas floor scraped her back. The musky smell of leaves and mud and sex inflamed her senses. In a fever, she tore at his shirt, thrust her tongue against his, tasting the blood on his mouth where she’d hit him. She pulled at his shoulders and neck with her teeth as she helped him tear off the barriers of cloth separating them, raising her hips to slam
against him as he entered her. She locked her legs around him, forcing him deeper. Rage and desire entangled, and every thrust was a contest. Groans seemed forced from his chest, and his hands gripping her buttocks clenched convulsively. Then fire exploded deep within her.

  For a few seconds, she lay quiet. Sickened. It was over. She pushed at his shoulders, trying to move him. Every vertebra seemed scraped raw by the hard, canvas-covered ground under her. When he didn’t move, she twisted from beneath him and got to her feet. Sweat was cooling on her skin, and she picked up her terry-cloth robe from the camp chair, clutched it around her while she groped for the lantern. The harsh glare filled the tent.

  “You can get out now.” She threw the words over her shoulder. “You’ve had your triumph.”

  “And sweet it was,” he said. “But a triumph for both, I thought. Unless, of course, you’re a better actress than I gave you credit for.”

  Cat turned. He bent to pick up his shirt from the floor. Long scratches streaked across his back, and in the thin blue light she saw red blotches on his shoulders, the marks of her teeth. Or maybe Morag’s. She looked away.

  “You really are low,” she said.

  “Can’t argue with that.” He buttoned his shirt, tucked it into his pants. “But I don’t think either one of us is much to brag about right now. Do you?”

  Cat reached for the bottled mineral water, pouring with shaky hands. She wrapped both hands around the plastic glass to prevent it from smacking against her bruised mouth.

  “Spare me the preaching. Just leave.” Cat turned her back, walked the two paces to sweep back the mosquito netting over the camp bed.

  “Well, memories for a lifetime,” he said. “You’ve been quite an experience, Miss Stanton.”

  She heard him drop the canvas door into place behind him.

  Tom arrived in the Cub soon after dawn. Fifteen minutes later, the plane was bumping over the uneven ground, scattering zebra and antelope, causing birds to burst from the cover of deep grass. The plane rose and Tom turned toward Nairobi.

  Cat shaded her eyes with one hand and looked out the window. Below, Moses and Sambeke were stick figures walking back to the tents on the bank of the river. Campbell stood alone watching the plane. She had not said goodbye. She kept her eyes on him until he fell into the distance and she could no longer see him clearly.

  Thirty

  Cat tucked the telephone against her shoulder and leaned against the open doorway of the balcony, watching the traffic in the square below her hotel window as she listened to the ringing tone. She imagined the sound traveling through empty drafting rooms, into her office where the sun filtered through the leaves of the coral trees on San Vicente Boulevard and splashed across the ebony partner’s desk she and Joel had shared. In Los Angeles it was 9:00 p.m. yesterday, too late even for Mave to be working. She’d dialed the number simply to make contact with her life.

  While listening, she studied the postcard in her hand. It had been among her mail, a picture of a magnificent building in downtown Jeddah designed by Skidmore, Owings and Merrill. On the back Paul had written:

  Too bad you’ll never get to see this. Saudi Arabia’s an interesting place. Leaving for Johannesburg tonight. Miss you.

  Suddenly Mave Chen’s voice was in her ear. “Okay, okay, hold your fire. I found him. He’s on his way.”

  “Mave. It’s me,” Cat said, surprised. “Who’s going where?”

  “Cat! Is this timing or what? I got here a minute ago. All hell’s breaking loose.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “They’ve hit water on the Spring Street job.”

  “Much?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Where?” Cat walked over to the desk, picked up a legal-size yellow pad and a ballpoint, hooked a chair into place with her foot and sat.

  “Murphy says it’s the southwest corner, under column B4.”

  “Okay.” The drawings of the subterranean garage of the twenty-five-story building in downtown Los Angeles started to unroll in her mind. “How deep are they?”

  “Sixty feet.”

  Sixty feet below grade, getting ready to pour concrete for the pilings to support five stories underground.

  “The drill riggers are putting in double shifts,” Mave was saying. “Murphy went back to check everything was going okay and happened to be there when water started to flood. He called Doug at home, got no answer, so he called me to find out where he is. I thought you were Murph checking in again.”

  “Okay.” Doug Jones, her design chief, was running the office while she was away. “I’ll call the job now and get back to you.”

  Quickly she dialed the job number, drumming her fingers while she listened to the phone ring in the construction trailer.

  “Yeah,” Murphy yelled in her ear. “Spring Street Plaza.”

  “Murph? Cat Stanton. What’s going on?”

  In the background she could hear a buzz of voices and the heavy grind of machinery. She could almost smell the cement dust and diesel exhaust, the stale smoke from Murphy’s chewed-up cigar. She was struck by longing for a cup of his coffee, the same bitter brew she’d had on a hundred job sites. Construction bosses seemed to specialize in it—their secret ingredient was probably iron filings.

  “We’ve hit water at ten feet under the B4 caisson,” Murph was yelling in her ear. “How did you know? You’re supposed to be in Africa or someplace.”

  “Yes, well, good news travels fast.” She heard him laugh, and her heart lightened just to be in touch with her own world, dealing with problems she could handle. “You got it pumping yet?”

  “I got the Hercules on its way, Cat, but your office will have to authorize it in writing for me. Hold a minute.” Cat heard a muffled roar. “Chrissake, hold it down, you guys. I’m on a call from goddamn Africa here. Yeah, okay, Cat, what d’y’say?”

  “Murph, when the well-point system’s going, make sure to keep pumping until we get the footings in.”

  “Yo.”

  “It’ll take time, but don’t skimp on this, it will cost a lot more if we don’t get good bearing. Okay?” Murph was a professional, with years of experience as a construction boss. Cat felt her work reaching out to her, stabilizing the ground under her feet.

  “Yo.”

  “Did Doug get there yet?”

  “Yeah, he’s here.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “Hold on.” The phone banged in her ear as he put it down. She heard him yelling Doug’s name.

  “Hey, Cat,” Doug’s voice said.

  “How bad is it, Doug?”

  “Well, it’s not good. We’ve hit an underground stream.”

  “That’s what I thought. Same thing happened on the Mount Sinai job. There’s no way those streams can be tracked on a survey. Any danger of collapse?”

  “Can’t be sure.”

  “Well, better keep the men out of the hole until it’s dried out.” She brought him up to date on the instructions she had given to Murphy. “Did you get hold of Armstrong?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, when you do, tell him I want a composite pad to sit on a cluster of triple columns to replace the one we’ve lost. And Doug, keep on him. Authorize what you have to and we’ll go over it when I get home. Delay costs the client money, and you know Armstrong. He’s a good structural engineer, but you have to be a squeaky wheel with him.”

  “I’ll take a sleeping bag over to his office if I have to.”

  She laughed, then briefly told him about Maasai Springs. “A joint venture, the government of Kenya and Bluebonnet, leased land, no outright purchase possible. A lot of palms will have to be greased but payoffs are part of the cost of doing business here.”

  “So what else is new? Here we call it campaign contributions.”

  Cat laughed again, feeling reconnected to her work and all that mattered to her. She hung up, then redialed the office. Mave brought her up to date on the rest of the jobs in progress. As t
hey spoke, Cat made notes as she usually did of telephone conversations. When she got back, she would load them into the computer.

  That done, she dialed Stephen N’toya’s number. After a dozen rings, she hung up and checked the telephone book. No listing, no address. She called the operator.

  “I have the telephone number of a friend in Nairobi,” she said. “But I have mislaid the address. Could you give that to me?”

  “Memsahib, that is a problem. I cannot be knowing the addresses of all who own telephones.”

  “No, of course not, but couldn’t you look it up on a computer?” As she spoke, she wondered if the telephone company had computers. Kenya was too poor even to keep the roads passable.

  “Even if such were possible, memsahib, it would not be correct, you see, for this information to be given to any person just for the asking.” The voice conveyed shock, as if what she had asked him to do was entirely improper. “If the subscriber was wanting his address known to all who fancied it, he would be publishing same in the phone book, do you see.”

  “Is there any way you could make an exception? I’m only in the country for a few days.”

  “Ah, well, most unfortunate, memsahib. No way, you see.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Asante.” She hung up. It had been a long shot at best.

  By ten she was crossing City Square. The turn-of-the-century building that housed the State Law Office was on Harampe Avenue, across the street from a lively produce market. After the heat and raucousness of the streets, the lobby was cool, the measured pace of the men coming and going heavy with authority. The few women among them stood out brightly in saris, one or two in tribal dress, the rest fashionably western. Everyone carried dark, bulky briefcases. The place smelled as if the floors above were filled with moldering paper.

  She walked over to the information desk. “Could you tell me where I can find Mr. Stephen N’toya, please.”

  The uniformed guard ran insolent eyes over her. He didn’t answer. Holding her gaze, he picked up a telephone and murmured into it. He lounged in his chair, watching her. Suddenly his spine snapped straight. Jumping to his feet, he stood at attention, barked a single-word reply. Carefully, he replaced the phone, then spoke to her in Swahili.